


The House That Julia Built

by Davechicken



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:19:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The House That Julia Built

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BeaRyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaRyan/gifts).



The meal is torture for him, I can tell. My Tom had never felt as home in the high-life of the post-electric world as I had. Oh he'd liked the _power_ and the _respect_ and the way people snapped to attention when he entered the room... all those things had flattered his ego, had made the once small man proud and tall. But these formal, domestic occasions were where _I_ had always ruled. 

Monroe had been so petty-minded in his warmongering, reducing us back to the days of the man in the uniform and the woman at home. Some of my fellow 'sisters' found this demeaning and perhaps I should have, but I had no desire to get my hands dirty out in the field. So I took control where I could, and that was in all matters domestic and politic. I held my court in my living room and my dining room and in the corridors of power, where words were weapons, not swords.

My Tom had been content with his men who saluted, but he knew when he came home that he entered into _my_ domain. And here he was, twice damned. My domain and another man's house. He is seated across from me and one down, next to two very dull people of high rank who I'd picked because they would irritate him with their ineffective conversation. My Tom was always well-read, well-thought. Put him in a group of fools and it was a delight to see him rip them limb from limb.

Not tonight, though. Tonight he barely speaks and his lips are a thinly drawn line of displeasure when no one was looking. He could tell a liar from a hundred paces, but it was not a skill unique to him. No. It is why we both got along so well in the first place.

Next to me my husband puts his hand on mine and I turn from my sideways-looks at Tom to beam at him, echoing his statement with a pretty little laugh. My current husband is a fool. A powerful fool, but a fool nonetheless. He does not know - yet - who is in control here. I do not want to show my hand too soon, and it is always more pleasing to be the unacknowledged power behind the throne, in a way. You do not stick your head above the parapet like that. If the executions come, you can be long since gone or cowering behind your skirt-tails and making doe-eyes at your captor.

Tom burns with rage and his smile goes ice-cold. I do not even need to look to know. I rub my thumb over his hand in that way I always would with Tom, I smile laughingly at his eyes and I push my hair behind my ear and I _know_ Tom is driving his fist into his thigh to try and regain a sense of control.

He has none. He knows this. He knows that I am in control, and always am.

The dinner goes on and the drinking and the plots and the toasts and eventually I gather my women-folk around me. "We will leave you to your guns and swords," I tell them, and peck my husband on the cheek. I do not meet Tom's eye as I do this. I do not need to.

We could stay, if we wanted. There are no real rules on etiquette to follow, but I find it easier to prise secrets from their soft lips when they feel I have welcomed them into my inner sanctum. Chairs are pulled back for us and we withdraw to leave them to their war-making. War has no attraction for me, save as a means to an end.

I know he will come. I know how long he will take before he excuses himself for the restroom. He is a creature of habit and I know all his habits off by heart.

I say I will powder my nose and I move gracefully to intercept him.

There he is - half way up the stairs - those dark, dogged eyes of his gazing up at me with a hunger around his lips. I love to see him want me. Truly, madly want me. I love to see his need.

"Julia..." he growls, and I put a finger to my lips, then tilt my head.

He follows me, of course. I do not need to look to see that he does. I lead him into one of the spare rooms, and he starts to back me against the wall. My arms drape around his shoulders and I'm fighting to restrain a laugh. 

"I've missed you," he says, hands pushing up the fabric of my dress and teeth threatening to bruise my throat and mark me out as claimed. I push his head away - delicious as those teeth are - and smile.

"I know you have."

"I almost dropped my fork under the table, just to kiss your ankle."

"I might have kicked you if you did," I tell him.

"It would be worth it." He is grinding hard against me, trying to get me breathless and aroused. I am already one, but not both.

"Depends where I kicked you," I point out. His fingers find my panties, though, and found them already damp. What can I say? I loved a good dinner. I loved a good, long, warm dinner. He rubs the fine fabric against me, the rough drag instead of slick fingers a torture most exquisite.

"I want to throw you over my shoulder and storm out with you," he says, kissing lower down my throat and pushing his nose between the cleft of my bosom. I hold his face in place as I squirm over his hand.

"You'd be shot if you tried," I tell him, though I liked the ridiculous devotion all the same.

"I'd shoot them first," he insists, and then he pinches at my clit through the cotton.

It hurts. It hurts good. I grab his shoulders hard and I bite my lip so as not to cry out. His finger and thumb worry over my sensitive skin and I want more, need more, need him inside me. Fingers, tongue, cock... I don't mind. I want it all and I want it now. I let my eyes shut and my head drift back... Tom was always so very, very good at this. So very, very good at putting me right on the edge of bliss. It had taken some work to train him, but he was a good study.

"Tell me you love me," he insists, letting go and sliding his hand inside my panties, thumb toying with the sensitive little nub, fingers stroking through and parting me, playing with my inner lips but never pushing inside.

"You're not my husband," I say instead, gratified when that spurs him on enough to finger me roughly.

"Your husband isn't doing a very good job of looking after you," he retorts, kissing his way back up towards my lips which I refuse to let him touch.

"Who said he isn't? Maybe you're just the entrée..."

That works, because he is fucking me roughly with two fingers and kissing filthy little promises against my throat and I hold on tight as he pulls me out and over, my climax slicking over his hand and coating him in my juices. Half-reluctantly I shove at his chest, making him stagger back. I want more. Oh, I want more. That was nowhere near enough to satisfy me, and he knows it. But just as he reaches for his belt with his dry hand, I shake my head and adjust my dress.

"Not tonight, darling," I tell him with a grin. "You've been gone long enough and so have I."

My Tom - my precious, precious Tom - his eyes narrowed with hatred and adoration in one. Oh I know he'll struggle to conceal the thickness in his pants. I know there was no way he could go back downstairs like that.

I know he won't. I knew when I left, he'd use my wetness to stroke an angry, painful climax from himself and he'd go back down cursing my name and ruing the day he met me... and he would be falling in love with me all over again.

And I would sit with my lady-folk with a throbbing, hot, hungry reminder of what I'd turned down. Of what I was delaying. Of what I'd get when it was time.

Oh, when it was time, I'd get everything in the world.

I throw him one last sultry look and sashay back to my parlour.

This house is _mine_.


End file.
